


Permanent

by caerynlae



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Gen, Reflection, Scars, Spoiler 4x23
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 20:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13959267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caerynlae/pseuds/caerynlae
Summary: I don’t need my eyes. I don’t need my fingers. To know exactly where every single one of them begins and ends.





	Permanent

I don’t need my eyes. I don’t need my fingers. To know exactly where every single one of them begins and ends. If I hold still and concentrate, I can feel them pulse warmly on my skin. I can’t remember what I look like without them. 

I hate the look in their eyes as they see me shirtless for the first time. It starts with confusion, shifts to horror and finally melts into pity. But no one will ever grasp what they mean to me. Unimaginable pain, but always followed by survival and eventually pride.

I walk down the hallway. Proud, confident, public mask perfectly slotted into place, designer suit hugging my body, hiding them all from sight. The people who don’t know me see a playboy turned responsible, the mayor of their city. The people who do know me wonder how I can walk without showing discomfort with the bruises and scrapes I obtained in yesterday’s battle. But none of them understand.

I can barely feel the bruises. It’s the permanent marks that I can feel ripple across my skin with every step I take. It’s a feeling I’m familiar with for years now and, unlike the bruises, this will never fade. They will always be a part of me. They stabilise me; counterbalance my dark thoughts, keep the forever cold feeling in my bones at bay and obscure which pieces of my soul I have lost. They are my reminder that I am still alive.

Later, when the work is done for the day, I’m looking forward to peeling of all layers covering my torso. Working out, ignoring as the scar tissue stretches uncomfortably and relishing the feeling of being alive to push my body to be what I want it to be.

Everyone who sees me working out admires my impressively strong muscles and pities me for the scars that litter my body. But they are wrong. My muscles are not what makes me strong. It’s my scars that motivate me to continue and push my body to its limits.


End file.
